TMNT: Rid of Her
by princessebee
Summary: 2K7verse. Set within the continuity of the tmnt stories I wrote in 2007. Raphael is heartsick and lonely when Angel calls to him. How can he say no when he should never have expected a chance - but he still loves the girl who left.
1. Chapter 1

_This story refers to events detailed in "Prey". It can be found on my profile, towards the bottom._

_This story contains adult material and is not suitable for under-18s. Those who are sensitive to depictions of drug use, violence or references to rape, please read with caution._

**ooo**

"Yo bro, catch!"

Raphael raised an arm and caught the beer can without looking as he crossed through the den on his way from the dojo to the kitchen. He ignored the whoops and applause that followed and popped the top, chugging back the icy cold drink as he yanked open the fridge door and eyed the shelves critically.

Fuckin' nada.

He took another swig and slammed the door shut before turning to the pantry. Ramen. Cereal. Rice. Pasta. Jars of crap. Cans of crap. Packets of crap. Not a single appealing thing in sight.

He flicked the pantry door shut with a little too much force and it made a loud bang as it hit the frame. Raphael huffed out in irritation and took another swig of the beer. It felt good in his mouth; fresh and tangy, and for a moment he glanced out to the den where a low babble of gossip and laughter could be heard even beneath the din of Halo 3.

Then his lip curled and he turned away, towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms. _Fuck it._

"Hey Raph! Come hang out!"

The voice gave him pause and he hesitated in his stride, casting another look towards the pile of cushions and beanbags clustered in front of the television set, and the bodies that occupied it.

His grip tightened on the perspiring can in his hand.

"Yeah, come on bro!" Michelangelo, the can tosser, spoke up, concealed behind the barricade of couches.

And the first voice spoke again. "Ain't seen you in ages."

It wouldn't hurt just to have a look. He didn't have to stay.

Slowly, he turned towards the elevated platform designated their communal space and cautiously approached.

Weirdly, his heart beat harder as he stepped up and came to the edge of their makeshift nest. He hadn't been doing a whole lot of socialising lately and was embarrassed to find himself nervous and awkward at the thought of plonking himself down and behaving like a normal person with a group of friends.

"_Chill, it's just your bros and Case,"_ he berated himself testily as glances and smiles of greeting were thrown his way. _"And Angel."_

Angel, holy shit.

Angel who was seated close to Mikey, the two of them watching as Don and Casey battled it out on the consoles, offering light-hearted narrative on the gameplay. Don and Casey were intent on the game, only nodding to him briefly, though Casey grinned in a pleased way. But Mikey had sat up straight and waved to him eagerly, and Angel…

Angel was beaming as though there was nothing in the world that could make her happier than the sight of him and holy shit, when had Angel gotten so _hot_?

Immediately he felt traitorous, even though there was no good goddamn reason he should, and he took a quick swig of his beer to quash his guilt and rip his gaze away before it could officially be dubbed an ogle.

Truth was, he'd had a bit of a thing for Angel when they were kids. She'd been thirteen and he'd been fifteen when they met and she'd been so cute and tough and the first girl even close to his age he'd ever been around. The first flutter in his chest when she'd scowled with all that irresistible bravado had knocked him for a six and after that he'd been torn between the desire to hang around her like a bad smell and get as far as fuckin' away from her as was humanly – ha – possible.

He'd opted for staying away. He was no fool, not like his dopey orange-masked brother. He knew there was no chance and that crush, or whatever it was, was a fool's game. Sometimes he'd even been a little mean to her when she came around wanting to hang out, rejecting her offers brusquely and storming off to be alone and damned if he didn't hate himself for it, but it was better than giving himself away. There was no possible way she could return his interest after all. She didn't need to know and he didn't need to be a chump. Mikey was always ready to hang out with her. He never understood why she always asked him first anyway.

And then years had passed and all kinds of shit had gone down and they just hadn't seen Angel much for a while. And his life had crossed paths with another girl. One who'd consumed all his thoughts for a time.

One who still did, if he was gonna be honest.

He realised he couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen Angel, but staring at her then as she grinned up at him from behind curled locks of purple hair, he was profoundly aware she had grown up.

Well, he was almost twenty-four, after all. That made her – twenty-one.

Twenty-one and gorgeous.

"Whaddya say, bro?" Michelangelo was saying, a note of excitement barely suppressed in his voice, and despite himself Raphael felt flattered his baby bro wanted him to hang so bad. "Wanna join us? We got beeeerrrr!" and he held up a six pack and waggled it invitingly at his brother.

"Yeah, c'mon Raph," Casey said, not looking up from the screen. "Take a load off. You been too much a stranger lately."

"You haven't even tried Halo 3 yet," Donatello spoke up, and Raphael knew that was as close as Don would get to welcoming him. Things had never been quite the same between them since Leonardo returned. But he knew if Don didn't want him there, he wouldn't have said anything at all.

But still Raphael hesitated, thick fingertips indenting the thin aluminium of the can in his hand, his heart skittering beneath his plastron. Christ, this hadn't been the plan for the night. The plan had been – what? To take a shower, shut himself in his room and play a video game alone. Then lie awake for hours thinking about her and wondering if she were even still alive. Hating her. Hating him.

Yeah, a whole lotta laughs.

Then Angel was scootching closer to Mikey and thumping the beanbag next to her, her smiling mouth lipsticked in dark purple, her soft brown eyes sparkling. "C'mon, drop that tail down over here," she coaxed him and he glanced at her again and his heart tugged at the sight of her smile.

Then he obeyed.

He would never have joined them if Angel hadn't been there, he knew that much, but it ended up being kinda fun. To start with he'd stayed mostly silent, unsure of himself and slightly ill at ease. In recent months, he'd either been spending all his time alone or one on one with Mike or Case. Four people at once was a lot, especially when three of them had big mouths fuelled by beer – or, in Angel's case, mixers, "lolly drinks", syrupy sweet shit he wouldn't touch on pain of death but that was somehow endearing. And that reminded him, with a little stab of consternation every time she took a swig, of her girliness. Just like the scent of her shampoo when she tossed her hair or the rattle of bangles on her wrists, the stain of lipstick on the neck of each bottle she got through.

He felt kinda disgusted with himself for being so preoccupied with her, but at the same time it was a welcome distraction from the bleak track his thoughts were usually on these days. There was no harm in looking, right? And he was barely looking. Just glancing now and then.

And with every can of beer he downed he relaxed a little more and bantered a little easier and Michelangelo just couldn't stop grinning like the idiot he was and Raphael found himself regretting how distant he had been even as he inwardly rolled his eyes, knowing Mike was quietly congratulating himself for throwing that first can of beer, sure he'd helped his brother turn a corner.

Donatello and Casey had clearly had plenty of practice on the game because by the time Angel yawned and stretched and announced she was going home, they were still hogging the consoles. Raphael didn't mind, to be honest. It might've been easier to adjust to the whole social interaction thing if he'd been able to focus on the game and restricted his conversation to smack talk, but then he wouldn't have been sitting so close to Angel the whole night. Angel, who touched his knee lightly and often, smiling and shaking her hair back, each featherlight caress like a mild shock. Angel, who shot him frequent and quick glances from thickly lashed eyes. And it was kinda nice to team up with her and Mike in trying to psyche the other two out. It was nice just listening to her and Mike natter on about shit. He didn't have a whole lot to contribute – his life lately had been composed largely of training, working and brooding in his room – but damned if just being there wasn't like coming out of a long, deep sleep, his foggy brain suddenly suffused with pins and needles of feeling. He was profoundly aware of just how out of touch with reality he had become – even the rustle of the bean bag as it shifted beneath his weight, the texture of the threadbare rug beneath his toes, the slick flavour of butter on his tongue as he munched fistfuls of popcorn all seemed newly vivid and stark. It was fuckin' weird.

Michelangelo was pouting at Angel with eyes as big and moist as Bambi's, but to her credit, Angel resisted. Girl was still tough.

"Nope," she said firmly, standing up and pulling on her bomber jacket, her tank riding up to reveal a patch of soft belly he quickly glanced away from. "It's past midnight already and those game hogs are still goin'. I'm outta here."

Michelangelo whimpered loudly like he was a fuckin' puppy left outside in the rain, but Angel had already turned to Raphael, her lips quirking in an inviting little smile, the lipstick rubbed away from the centre of them to reveal the soft brown flesh beneath. "Walk me home?"

And when Michelangelo abruptly stopped whining and turned away with a conspiratorial smirk to pay exaggerated attention to what Casey and Donatello were doing, Raphael felt heat collect in his cheeks. But it was past midnight and Angel lived in a rough neighbourhood. There was no question of what his answer could be.

"'Sure," he mumbled, and went to suit up.

Despite the oversized sweat suit and beanie he wore, they took the back route as much as possible to avoid the people who inevitably strolled the streets in the city that never slept. Once away from the others, Raphael found himself frustratingly tongue tied and more than a little giddy from the beer, and he hoped to Christ he wouldn't be completely fuckin' useless if trouble did find them. An oppressive apprehension crept over him as they quietly negotiated the way, managing not much more than a grunt or two in response to Angel's stilted efforts at conversation. It was mortifying, and drove home again how isolated he had become, unable even to work up the guts to talk to an old friend.

"How you been anyway, Raph?" Angel tried again, and Raphael pulled up short and just stared at her, because wasn't it obvious, completely fuckin' obvious, that he had fallen apart.

She stopped too and turned to face him, shrugging a little with a wry set to her mouth. "You ain't been around much."

Fuck, he didn't want to talk about this. A lump formed at the base of his ribs and began steadily to expand upwards over his chest and right into his throat, making him feel suffocated and light-headed.

Angel continued to gaze at him from those soft, brown eyes. "Mikey's been worried."

And abruptly he started into motion again, striding forward, leaving her behind. "Mikey ain't my mother," he snapped and immediately regretted his terseness, recalled to their teenage years when he'd treated her with similar asperity for no good goddamn reason other than discomfort with his own feelings.

"Okay, okay", she said testily, jogging to catch up, falling in beside him. "Forget I said anything."

They walked in silence for a while and he kept the pace swift, forcing her to keep up with him, wanting to get her home and get away again, get alone again, except even as he thought it, even as he yearned for it, pain punched his heart as he realised exactly what would happen once he were alone, where his thoughts would go, who he would think about in the bitterly empty darkness of his room or whatever little hole he found for himself. How, no matter how hard he poured over and over again all the things he coulda done different, not one single damn thing would change and he would still be alone and he still wouldn't know if she were alive or dead.

When they reached the stoop of her building Angel turned to him with a fiercely defiant tilt to her chin and gazed him right in the eye.

"Come inside for a drink?"

And though she tried to make it sound like an order, her voice wavered just a little and it was that that made him unable to refuse.

"Okay," he replied. And his stomach lurched violently when the little pout of her lips was replaced with that brilliant beaming smile, a beringed hand lifting to push a lock of purple hair back over her ear, her cheeks flushed from the late autumn chill.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

And nausea erupted in him so quick he very nearly turned and puked right there on the street. Because even though she was beautiful and sweet and vividly alive and right fuckin' there, Angel wasn't her and it was her he really wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been fourteen months since Amber had disappeared and it still hurt as much as it had when he'd entered the window of her squat to find it empty, cleared of any personal effects except the books she'd stolen, stacked up in piles around the walls.

That had been two weeks after The Fight, two weeks since she'd told him to never come near her, not ever again, and though he had stormed off with the full intention of complying, sure he never wanted to see her again either, his rage had dissipated enough after a few days to want to check on her. Just to make sure she was okay.

Except she hadn't been in her usual spot. Not all that night. Or the night after. Or the one after that. And though his pride had striven mightily to resist, his fear was stronger and the next thing he knew he was at her window, silent and stealthy as though he were on a recon mission against the Foot. He just needed a glimpse of her. Alive. Oh fuck, please, alive.

But the dingy little room had been empty. Profoundly empty – she'd never had much stuff, but the mattress was gone, as was the stereo and the sack of clothes. And there was no rubbish. She'd always been good about cleaning up her syringes but she'd had a habit of leaving candy wrappers and instant noodle bowls wherever she put them down.

It was a strangely Amber-like thing to do; carefully take away her garbage so whoever ended up in the little room next didn't have to clean up.

And he'd known. Known she wasn't even in the city anymore. She'd gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Angel's place was tiny and shabby and crammed with more clothes and shoes than anybody could possibly wear in a lifetime, as far as he could tell. It smelled like toasted coconut, an aroma that was explained when she lit a bunch of fat scented candles that crowded the coffee table and the window sill. While he hovered awkwardly near the door she flicked on a couple of lamps, then switched off the overhead lights so that the crowded studio room was only dimly illuminated. Raphael's gut fluttered and he shifted his weight, thrusting suddenly sweaty hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. Angel picked up a remote and switched on the stereo, TLC blaring for a second before she quickly decreased the volume to a low hum. Of course it was TLC. She'd always fuckin' loved TLC.

"Sit down," she instructed him with a little smile as she crossed past him on her way to the tiny alcove kitchen. "I only got vodka. That okay?"

"Fine," he grunted, stepping across the narrow room to the plush couch. He knew the second he sank into it, felt the fine suede softly caress his scales, that it was expensive. Mounted on the wall directly across from him was an enormous flat screen television.

Angel emerged from behind the kitchen counter, carrying two large vodka oranges, offering him one. He accepted it and took a large gulp. She'd mixed them strong, and he was kinda grateful. Dutch courage. She slid down onto the couch beside him and his heart began to thud at her proximity as she set her glass down on the coffee table and bent over to unbuckle her shoes. He glanced over her head to the double bed against the far wall, unmade and rumpled, scattered with discarded clothing and a couple of quilted bags, each with a buckle adorned with two intersected C's, and felt his tail stir and then berated himself. Fuck, was he being totally presumptuous? It's not like he was a naive inexperienced kid anymore, but maybe he was getting shit all wrong.

Angel kicked off her shoes and then shrugged off her jacket, her chest thrusting out as she did so. She shot him a sideways look, her dark eyes at once coy and hopeful, checking to see if he was watching, and he knew he wasn't getting anything wrong.

Raphael took another large gulp of his drink as she gathered her legs up under her on the couch, turning her body towards his. His eyes roved her figure impulsively, finally unable to suppress the urge anymore, and his throat went dry with desire, his tail throbbing. In a moment it would get uncomfortable, he'd have to move. But he'd wait a little longer – just to be sure.

Angel reached across the space between them and stroked his cheek.

Unbidden, Amber sprang to his thoughts, her blue eyes peeking from between strands of red hair, freckles upon freckles upon freckles, the way she'd lay beside him and stroke his cheek in the quiet final moments of the morning before he would have to leave her, and his gut twisted, then heaved.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Could he even do this? Could he even touch another woman now? He felt like he was cheating on her just sitting there, just sitting beside this beautiful girl who was crazy enough to want to go to bed with him, just for enjoying her touch on his cheek cos _fuck_, he'd forgotten what something like that felt like and it made him remember everything else he'd been lucky enough to get used to for a while and the desire for it threatened to choke him. But Amber. He still fucking loved her.

But he couldn't be cheating. Because that relationship was over and had been for over a year. Even if he still loved her, she was long gone. Alive or dead, she was gone.

And all he'd done since she'd been gone was train and work and mourn her. All he'd done was withdraw into the cocoon of his own thoughts, shutting out his brothers and father and friends, sleepwalking through the world like he was just passing time until she came back; except he knew she wasn't ever coming back and his life was just ticking away.

Angel's full lips quirked in a little smile as she contemplated him, her touch on his cheek light and sweet, her other arm draped across the back of the couch, propping her chin up on her hand. Her purple hair tumbled around her face and he noticed she'd added pink and blue streaks at some stage – when? How long had it been since he'd seen Angel? When had she gotten this hot?

"I always had a thing for you when we were kids," she said then, quietly, and he would swear to God his heart actually stopped.

"I always had a thing for you too," he heard himself reply, and suddenly he knew he should walk away. Because if he was able to make a confession like that right off the bat, it was because it was no longer true. Not the way it had been, anyway. And looking into Angel's eyes, soft and excited and eager, it occurred to him it was still very true for her.

Her smile widened to hear him and her hand dropped to his neck, her thumb stroking back and forth, and it felt so fucking good he didn't move. "Is that why you were such a jerk to me?" And her smile faded, replaced with a thoughtful little frown. "Did you think I couldn't like you back?"

"Whaddya think?" he said, gruff but gentle. His heart beat hard and heavy and he fought against closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. Couldn't give too much away. Couldn't show how starved he was. "Is that why you were always buggin' me?" he pushed on more lightly and she smirked and gave his shoulder a little shove and he managed to chuckle along, though his neck tingled where her hand had lain.

"Yeah, well, I knew better than to wait for you to make the first move. Not that you ever gave me the chance to," she finished with a trace of wry wistfulness.

"Sorry," he replied, meaning it. His teenaged self would've been in seventh heaven if just once he'd agreed to go tagging with Angel and given her the opportunity to put the moves on him.

And how different everything else might've been then…

Angel sat forward, gazing into his eyes intently, her long lashes framing her eyes darkly in the dim light. "You know better now though, right? Than to think that?"

Raphael went cold all over, then his entire body prickled, heart suddenly racing. Just what exactly did she mean by that? Did she know about Amber? His mouth went dry and he sat back slowly, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Well, you asked me in," he said warily, playing it safe. If she knew about Amber, he didn't want to know. Maybe she just meant that he'd known her long enough to expect she wouldn't be prejudiced.

And then Angel was smiling coyly at him, reaching forward now to place a hand on his knee and the touch ricocheted through him like fire.

"Yeah, I asked you in, Raphie," her tone was flirtatious, an unmistakeable invitation, but somehow all he could think about was how Amber had never called him Raphie; had rarely called him anything other than Raphael.

And he drained the rest of his drink quickly and set it with a thud on the coffee table.

"Gotta use the john," he muttered and Angel pulled her hand away, smoothing her hair back nonchalantly and nodding towards the door set in the wall next to the kitchen, though he didn't miss the flash of anxiety in her eyes and he felt like a heel as he got up and walked into the bathroom.

He hadn't been lying though, and as he emptied his bladder, his gaze roamed the cupboard-sized bathroom, noting the plastic ferns and the bric-a-brac against the pale green walls, the tiny bathtub behind the pink shower curtain and even that was enough to trigger painful memories. How rainy nights when she had enough cash, Amber would take the night off and book into this particular cheap ass motel she'd discovered; a rat trap of a place with one perk: the hottest, most high pressure showers on the lower east side. She'd call him, tell him the room number and they'd spend the night fucking under the water.

The recollection made him reel, made the back of his throat taste the vodka-orange, putrid with bile, and he dropped his face into his hands and inhaled deeply.

What the fuck had happened to her?

Would he ever know?

Suddenly stiflingly hot, he wrenched off the hoodie and kicked off the sweat pants, then stood and flushed, moving to wash his hands and trying not to look at himself in the mirrored doors of the medicine cabinet, knowing he wouldn't be able to bear what he saw there. Because no matter how bad he wanted it right then, no matter how beautiful and tempting Angel was, no matter some long forgotten fantasy was about to come true, she wasn't her.

Because if his phone rang right then and it was her, he'd get up and go to her.

And he thought he had some fuckin' nerve to feel that way, when it wasn't exactly as though girls were throwing themselves at him, when Angel was being generous beyond all reckoning, when she was drop dead gorgeous and a honey to boot, when she definitely deserved a lot fuckin' better than him sitting there, getting a hard on over her and wishing she were someone else.

Procrastinating, he tightened the knot of his mask and cast another glance around the tiny bathroom, noticing the fat, bright red makeup bag that sat on a stool by the sink, spilling over with lipsticks and other items Raphael wouldn't know the first thing about identifying. More of the enormous scented candles were placed at the end of the tub and idly he picked one up and turned it over in his hands as though to decipher its appeal. He hated shit like this. The price tag on the bottom read thirty dollars. He sighed and put it down and turned his gaze towards the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The Fight had started the night he thought she was dead.

It had become an increasing fear; that he would enter her window to find her lifeless body – and increasingly, it seemed an inevitable reality. And that night she was splayed on the stained mattress, her face still and her chest unmoving, so pale and thin she seemed utterly insubstantial and his throat had constricted with abject terror and he'd been on his knees beside her in a heartbeat, shaking her frail body vigorously, his heart thundering against his sternum so hard he thought it could rupture. "Lex, Lexy baby, come on," he'd been shouting without realising it, heedless of who might hear him – reckless, foolish, even in that part of town where no one was likely to pay attention – and it had seemed a lifetime before she stirred. Groggy, so stoned she could barely crack her eyes open, she'd moaned a little and lifted a hand to rub her face as though he'd done no more than stir her gently awake with a few soft words.

"Hey, ssup'?" she'd murmured in a voice strained paper thin, raspy and unbothered, not even a little perturbed. Just complacent.

And he'd abruptly let her go and sat back on his haunches, a terrible mix of rage and fear and sorrow deluging his system as she'd pulled herself up with an effort and immediately began fixing herself a shot from the My Little Pony lunchbox she kept all her gear in and he wondered when the fuck this had started, when she would just shoot up in front of him so blasé and indifferent, when she knew he hated it, when it took every ounce of control he had not to just rip the syringe from her hand and smash it to pieces against the wall.

The shot was cocaine; he knew that's how she got herself ready for work now, that her smack doses were too heavy and she needed the upper to tear her into alertness. He sat and watched, his jaw gritted and body rigid, his bloodstream roaring with impotence and frustration, his heart a clenched knot of misery as she searched the ruin of her arms for a vein. She had to shoot up between her toes and he found he wasn't sure if she didn't glance at him even once because she knew how violently he resented her right then, or because she just didn't care.

Then she'd capped the syringe carefully, like always, and put it in one of the little black sharps disposals she always had to hand, rolled up her gear and locked it all away, placed the brightly coloured tin box to the side and turned to him, smiling, her eyes lit with an artificial brightness, like a fluorescent bulb where the sun should be.

At some point in the two years they'd been together, the guardedness had left her eyes when she looked at him. The wry cynicism that had always glazed them had lifted and she would gaze at him with such open affection and desire that it always left him undone and defenceless. It was so different to the tough, mean little bitch she otherwise was, and it was his alone. As she reached for him then, he found his fury dissipate at the sight, somehow so unbearably touching, and his resentment fled in an instant. He wasn't really in the mood for sex but as her hand slid up over the inner muscles of his thigh, he knew she could change his mind quick. Lately it had been getting really, _really_ good, now that they were both a lot more confident, and if they started he would once again put it off, put off all he'd been planning to say for weeks now and things just couldn't continue as they were and he had to stop being so fuckin' chicken shit, had to stop thinking with his dick, and just fuckin' say it.

Just as her fingertips stroked his tail, brushed the slit of his cloaca, he made a dive and caught her hand up in his own, even as his traitorous body shuddered and he felt the tip of his organ nudge against the opening. Amber blinked and looked at him in surprise, her dilated pupils dark in her pale face. He looked at her, at her chapped lips and the freckles that crowded across her skin, the long, gorgeous red hair that fell heavy and straight, that she always kept meticulously clean no matter what, with the one lock of hair in front that was shorter than the rest, an ever-present reminder of the horrible events that had finally pulled them together. At the eyes that were always either all pupil or none at all, enormous in her thin head, vulnerable and defenceless with feeling as she looked at him. And regardless of everything else, he was struck with a wave of such tenderness for her he nearly drowned in it.

"Lexy, we gotta talk," he rasped. And just like that, her eyes went hard and guarded once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Angel was waiting for him in her underwear on the bed and the instant he saw her he knew he wasn't going to leave and he hated himself for it, even as his eyes drank in the ravishing sight of her. Angel had gotten voluptuous, chubby almost, large round breasts and wide hips, a soft belly and big butt, and he found it so fuckin' sexy it was a wonder he was able to keep it in his tail. She smiled at him shyly, the hot pink lace of her bra and panties gleaming in the dim light as Chilli Thomas quietly sang about not wanting no scrubs in the background, and he suddenly wanted another drink, the sweetness of that smile juxtaposed against her boldness wrenching his heart. Fuck, it had been over a year. It had only ever been Amber. _Fuck,_ her breasts were huge.

Once, while Leo was away, before things had got unbearable between he and Don, the three of them had been watching old episodes of Baywatch, strictly for the hot chicks in swimsuits running along the beach – though Mikey had got more than a little emotionally invested in a storyline or two, like the one about the chick with the split personality. Randomly Don had launched into a spiel about how it didn't make any sense for them to be preoccupied with breasts; they weren't a reptilian trait and however you looked at it they were just sacks of fat intended to nurture infants. It didn't even make sense for humans to be so obsessed with them. In fact, there were parts of the world where breasts weren't considered erotic at all, so it had to be down to socialisation and the particular cultural media they had been immersed in growing up.

Raphael and Michelangelo had just stared agape at him as he rambled on, exchanging a baffled glance before Michelangelo had interrupted: "Yeah bro, but I seem to recall you needing a whole lotta 'alone' time whenever Renet walked by in that little jungle bra back in the Jurassic".

Raphael had laughed and Donatello had reddened and their attention had returned to the television. It was typical of Don to overthink things like that. Raphael didn't give a damn if he was 'socialised' that way or not – boobs were hot. He didn't waste time wondering why. He just thought they looked good – looked great.

In his fantasies, the girls had always been shaped like Angel. Amber, with her painfully thin body, flat chest and narrow hips, could not have been further away from his ideal, but he'd desired her all the same. He supposed that was love. Not that he'd been in any position to be picky, not that he wasn't so hard up he could knock back an opportunity so easy.

And then he was furious at himself for betraying her in his thoughts like that when she'd been the first woman who'd even been willing – when she'd accepted him, chosen _him_, when she had any number of her own species to turn to. When she felt her own ugliness profoundly, as he came to learn in the months their relationship had formalised, as her walls slowly chipped down. What kind of asshole was he, to be standing around celebrating he was finally gonna get it on with a stacked chick when by all rights he should've expected to stay a virgin his entire life? When he'd loved that skinny, ugly girl who had shared herself with him, and didn't love this beautiful, curvy one who wanted him right then.

Then his throat was clenching shut as emotion once again crashed over him in a horrible deluge. The right thing to do would be to leave. Because every impulse he had in that moment was entirely selfish; nothing but greed and lust and a burning need to comfort himself. He wanted sex, he wanted to smother his heartache and take refuge in Angel's body and it was a bastard of a thing to do. Because he couldn't unshackle his heart from Amber's and the look in Angel's eyes was painfully vulnerable in all its hopefulness and anticipation. Not even he, with his habitual inclination to believe the worst about how others felt towards him, could pretend there was nothing more she wanted from him than sex and fuck it all, the sex was incredible enough – but the rest? That was a fuckin' _gift_ and he was in no fit state to appreciate it, still eating his heart out over a woman whose last words to him had been that she hated him, who had vanished and left him to wonder what had become of her through endless wretched nights, yearning for the slight bundle of her, fantasy or not, back in his embrace.

Why here and why now? Why not six years ago? Why not ten? Why, even as a kid, had he been of such a bleak frame of mind he had never taken the chance to just go hang out with her?

And why couldn't he do the right thing then, and just walk out?

Angel was reaching out to him across the room, shadows dipping over her breasts and between her thighs, emphasising their generous dimension, acting as enticement to the growing part of him that wanted to feel her beneath his palms, the thought of all those generous curves sliding against him overpowering his good sense.

"C'mere, papi," she whispered. And he went.

Because what else did he have to go to instead? A dark room and his lonely thoughts. The same company he had kept for over a year, after having known, however broken and dysfunctional it was, what it was like to share his life with another. And he couldn't bear one more night of it.

She shifted forward to meet him as he reached the bed, kneeling upright, her eyes bright and her lips slightly parted. He had to stifle a moan as his hands slipped around her waist, the soft suppleness of her flesh awakening a hunger in him that made him suddenly light-headed. Jesus, he'd forgotten – forgotten how good this felt.

But as their lips softly touched for the first time, it seemed almost as though he had never experienced it before – because everything was different, and even as waves of feeling shuddered through him, even as he felt his tail descend and his cock begin to emerge, even as he pulled Angel's body against his and relished the feeling of all those soft curves, his throat constricted and his eyes stung as his mind cruelly checked over every single way she was nothing at all like Amber.

Angel practically melted into him as they kissed and he felt the yearning in her flow through the tender press of her lips like honey into his mouth. He felt sick, his gut upending, and he was on the verge of pulling away when her hands softly glided down his sides, against the terribly sensitive flesh protected by the rim of his carapace, and his cock leapt forward, prompting him to stand astride. Fuck, he didn't even know if Angel knew the first thing about turtle anatomy or how she was going to react upon the sight of him bared in all his – ha – glory. Another unwelcome memory pounded hotly, screamingly through his mind – their first time, Amber laying back on the lumpy old mattress, her eyes soft and gentle, her lips trembling, her bruised and battered naked body compliant and inviting. _"Show me what to do,"_ she'd whispered to him, the palm of one hand gently stroking his plastron. _"Show me how you work." _She hadn't flinched or hesitated even once as his organ had emerged, staring him straight in the eye and asking him what he liked when she wrapped her hand around him. He'd been so fucking scared, scared she was disgusted or repulsed, that she was faking it all, and she'd seen his fear and moments later lowered her head to his lap and blown him, gently, slowly and sweetly. And that feeling of acceptance had overwhelmed him even more than the pleasure, had been enough to make his eyes sting.

He made a stifled noise in his throat, his head buzzing furiously with the painful images, his heart clenching hard and he yanked Angel harder against him, crushing her breasts against his plastron and deepening their kiss, striving to push the memory away with the immediacy of sensation. Her soft flesh was silken against the hard amour, yielding invitingly, and her arms went up and around his neck as their tongues twined. Angel's mouth was cool from her drink, the tang of orange on her tongue, and her breath was sweet. Amber had always tasted of nicotine and he realised he had been expecting it, was surprised to find it absent. A moment later relief rushed him in a tingling flood that Angel did not smoke – he couldn't have stood it had there been even one little thing that was the same, especially not one so intimate.

Because Angel was so different, couldn't have been more different. It was disorientating and intoxicating and bittersweet all at once. As he strove to drive Amber from his thoughts, as their kiss grew more intense, more hungry and less tentative, their breath overlapping in ragged pants, Angel's hips rocking back and forth, the scent of her arousal musky and profound in the tiny room and making his cock strain forward, his hands roamed her body, finding handfuls of flesh to knead and squeeze, so different, so painfully, utterly different to Amber's bony, fragile frame that he'd always been so afraid to handle. She had felt like she could snap in his hands, would shatter if he squeezed too hard, all wasted muscle and bone, none of this glorious soft fat that felt so lush and resilient in his grip.

He fisted a hand in Angel's hair, tilted her head to the side and drove hard into her mouth with his tongue against the vivid recollection of Amber's slight frame in his arms. Angel made a soft noise and sudden awareness she was a lot more fragile than she looked prompted him finally to pull back, breaking the kiss and cradling her face with his hand, gazing at her searchingly. They were both panting and her lips were swollen from his attentions. Her eyes were glazed as she stared at him through lidded lashes and pressed her cheek against his palm.

"I'm okay," she whispered in response to his unasked question "Fuck, you're hot."

She was running her hands up and over his arms now, her palms coasting the rigid dips and curves of defined muscle, pausing now and then to squeeze. That was something Amber had loved to do as well.

"Jesus, Raph," Angel whispered. "Even better than it looks."

He wanted to be pleased, bask in her admiration for the results countless hours of work had yielded. But this close, even in the dim light, he could see the spray of dark freckles across her nose, and his gut lurched again as Amber's freckled face swam behind his eyes, her lips similarly swollen and eyes misted, clinging to his shoulders as he thrust into her, and he yanked Angel forward against him, mashing his mouth to hers in another savage kiss, his hands roughly traversing her body, over her full breasts and hips, around to grasp her round ass and tug her forward so the tip of his cock pressed against the lacy panties. He groaned to feel it and squeezed her buttocks. She wasn't Amber; she was nothing at all like Amber, nothing at all and she never, ever would be.

And he couldn't even tell if that refrain were more comforting or devastating to him.


	6. Chapter 6

"How could you say this shit to me?" she'd seethed like a cornered rat, her hands clawed by her sides, head low and snarling, as different from the girl who'd smiled softly and reached out to him in love five minutes earlier as ice to fire.

He'd risen to his feet when she had but somehow he hadn't lost it yet. It was strange, to be in the middle of an argument and not be angry, not be fighting back, not be bellowing and roaring, but the more she raged the less he wanted to. He'd known she would flip out, of course, it was expected. You couldn't tell an unrepentant junkie you thought she needed help and expect her to just take it onboard reasonably. Amber's entire life was organised around defending her addiction. And for a while he'd gone along with it. But it was killing her and he couldn't bear to watch it anymore.

That's why he hadn't flipped yet. Because he had to get through to her.

"It's true, Lex," he said, keeping his voice low to keep it calm, his heart pounding rapidly and his throat painfully dry and he wondered if this was how Leo felt when they fought. "Baby, you're gonna die."

"So what!" she threw at him, pacing, kicking at the floor. "If I wanna die, then I fuckin' can! It's not for you to say!"

She might as well have stabbed him right through the heart with his own sai.

"Don't it matter how I feel about that?" he asked her and he hated how raw and naked his voice sounded, stripped of all pride, raspy with grief.

It pulled her up short and she'd cast him a quick look, a flash of wet remorse in her eyes and for a moment, he hoped…

But hoping had never gotten him very far in life.

A second later she was furious again, no doubt bitterly resenting him for making the point at all, making her question the dogma she recited constantly to justify the choices she'd made, to convince herself she was still making a choice.

And when she turned on him again, all he could see in her eyes was black hate and he knew that, whatever happened next, there was no going back.

"No it doesn't fucking matter," she shouted at him. "I've been through enough already, because of you. Fuck you!"

It hit home, exactly as hard as she intended and he swallowed heavily against the constriction in his throat, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists, guilt and grief choking him,

"You know I'll never forgive myself – " he'd started, voice hitching with emotion, but she didn't let him finish.

"They fucking raped me!"

It was like she'd body-slammed him, knocking the air straight from his lungs, leaving him silent and unbreathing, staring at her, her twisted face and hunching posture.

"You said they didn't," he heard himself say numbly, but it was like the words came from someone else. He couldn't even feel his lips move.

"I lied," she hissed, her bony chest heaving, her eyes red with unshed tears. "They did."

The room seemed to swirl and retreat around him and he vaguely became aware he was shaking, his whole body shuddering violently. _Your fault, your fault, your fault_, a voice yammered between his ears and he looked, stricken, at the girl he loved, desperate to take her in his arms, afraid to touch her, sickened with himself for failing her, for being the cause of it, the reason she had been taken, the self-loathing like bile that flooded his throat and mouth and nostrils.

She faced him off, her eyes wild and her teeth bared, like she was ready to spring on him in an instant if he just gave her reason enough. But his knees were buckling beneath him, his gut wrenching and eyes burning. Holy shit, they'd made love for the first time that morning after. She'd looked him straight in the eye and told him they hadn't touched her. She'd undressed before him and pulled him into her arms, opening her legs to him without hesitating. She'd protected him. _She'd protected him._

Amber continued to stare at him, gaze venomous and defiant. "So you don't get to say any goddamn fuckin' thing about what I put in my body."

Raphael's head buzzed, his gaze swimming as he struggled to process it all. He rubbed his face and barely felt it; he was numb all over. His heart seemed to gasp with every thud, pained and forced.

"I'm sorry," he said it somehow, and he was ashamed of how weak he sounded, how he was practically begging her, his voice wavering and desperate, and vaguely he was aware Amber was quivering as her fury crested once more, as though she despised him for apologising. _And why shouldn't she? What could apologising do?_ "I think I killed them all. I didn't know. I – I – "

"What the fuck do you know about _anything_, you fucking_ freak!_", she screamed at him, her voice ringing around the barren room.

And there it was.

He was struck dumb by the sound of that word from her lips, like an icy splinter driven straight through his plastron, cleaving him into a bloody raw mess.

The silence between them was absolute and yet the word echoed in his head, suffused with all her rage and hatred and seeming to scald his very mind. How often had he been terrified it lay in her secret thoughts. How much he had dreaded discovering it had all been a lie, all of it. That he disgusted her. That she did not want him. That she didn't love him. That all her reassurances and generosity, her tenderness and affection was just a sort of brilliant charade, played out to repay him.

Time had seemed to stop as he stared at her livid, vindictive face, and his heart wrenched and broke in his chest.

And just as her face fell and the glitter of remorse sparked in her eyes, as though she only just fully comprehended what she had said and all its import, his defences kicked in.

Rage churned within him, and he felt his teeth bare and the snarl contort his mouth, his eyes hardening to burning stones as he drowned away his heartache and sorrow with a boiling eruption of fury.

"I know you're a worthless junkie whore."


	7. Chapter 7

It was Angel who broke the kiss next, tilting her head back to appraise him from liquid brown eyes.

"What's wrong, Raph?"

Raphael couldn't answer her; couldn't dare trust his voice to remain steady. Wordlessly, he ran his hands up over her waist, dropping his gaze to where her breasts spilled over the cups of her bra, lower to her soft belly and flared hips. Fuck, she was beautiful. Beautiful and sweet – and trusting. Trusting him. Not knowing all the treacherous thoughts that clogged his bastard mind. Betraying Amber with every impulse of delight and pleasure he got from Angel's body; betraying Angel with every ache of his soul for the girl she couldn't be more different from.

Angel sat back on her haunches, not taking her eyes from his face, her expression searching and compassionate.

"Do you want to do this?"

Jesus fuck, but he did. He wanted to, badly. He might not ever get another chance and Angel was so fucking beautiful. He was lonely, lonely as hell. He was tired of being alone with his thoughts, alone with himself, tired of nothing to do to beat the pain away except train until he was raw and exhausted. He wanted the oblivion of ecstasy. He wanted someone to hold him. Someone he could go to whenever the memories became too oppressive, someone who would welcome him with love. Someone to make him forget.

Raphael swallowed hard and found his voice, meeting her eyes with his own.

"Do you?"

In answer, she reached behind her and unhooked her bra and his breath once again caught in his throat as she slowly peeled the straps from her shoulders, the flesh of her breasts wobbling tantalisingly as she did so. Momentarily he felt grateful; he wouldn't have known how to work the fucking thing, Amber had never worn one –

And another flash of bitter memory; Amber's tiny white breasts, obscured beneath his palms, little more than nipple and a slight swelling of flesh. It had never occurred to him to be disappointed; he'd counted himself lucky to even be touching a woman to begin with – and he'd loved her. She'd been beautiful to him.

Then Angel was tossing the bra aside and for a moment, finally, he could think of nothing else but what was before him, in all its inviting glory.

_Fuck_.

She was magnificent, and she knew it, a pleased little smirk running up her mouth as she tossed her hair and preened beneath Raphael's dry-mouthed gaze. His erection, which had flagged under the weight of his stricken memories, once again grew rock hard at the sight of Angel's lovely smiling face and the locks of purple hair that curled sweetly atop the orbs of her breasts, her large brown nipples puckered.

Then her eyes dropped to his crotch and though his heart leapt into his throat, he did not try to hide. She would have to know, eventually. Better to get it over with now. Watching her closely, he set his jaw and braced himself for his own betrayal.

But a moment later she raised her eyes calmly to his and smiled at him easily, fearlessly, and his knees buckled so bad he had to kneel forward on the bed. Of all the things she had to share with Amber, it had to be that; that simple and immediate acceptance that threatened to break him all over again. Before he could give himself away, he pushed her back down on the mattress, lowering himself onto her and pressing his mouth once more to hers.

Angel wiggled beneath him, her legs wrapping around his carapace, his cock pressing against the centre of her, sensing the valley that opened up between her thighs, waiting for him, making him throb with need and lust. He kept his weight propped on his forearms, conscious of crushing her beneath bony armour. However substantial she seemed, getting her on her back had allowed him to assess that she was weak as shit, not even remotely a match for him, and however gorgeous it might feel to melt into her softness, he didn't want to hurt her.

There was fierce intent to their kisses now and Raphael knew as she ground up against him, as he gripped her head in his hands and held her still, that any possibility he might come to his senses and leave had long fled. He was a selfish asshole, a heartless prick for what he was doing to her, but the scent of her had intoxicated him and she felt so. fucking. good, all liquid curve and supple flesh, and shit, it wasn't as though he didn't care about her at all. Maybe, in time, maybe it would be more…

And for the time being, he could make her happy and she could help him forget…

Maybe.

He tore his mouth from hers and burned a trail of kisses down her neck, feeling the tug and rock of her breasts against his plastron as he moved, and his cock pulsed as she moaned and rubbed a palm back over his scaly scalp, her fingertips hooking beneath the knot of his mask as his head dipped lower and he was finally in line with those beautiful breasts. For a moment his gut twitched nervously, hilariously unsure if he knew how to treat them, if he was supposed to do something differently. But then his hands had cupped them, pushed them together in a tempting display and the sight was like a lure to him. He latched his lips around a nipple and Angel's spine was arching beneath him and the texture of the erect nub and the perfume of her flesh were overcoming all rational thought.

They felt as amazing as he had ever imagined. Soft and pliant in his hands, responsive in his mouth, creamy and smooth against his face and Angel seemed to like what he was doing. Even petite as she was, Amber had liked it too – _fuckin'_ _hell, stop thinking about her! _He was so damn lucky right then, so lucky she would even give him the time of _day_ let alone allow him to do this shit to her, but still he couldn't stop the spectre of the past overshadowing the there and then, which could've been so fuckin' perfect if only he could lose himself in it…

Abruptly he sat up and hooked his fingers below the waistband of Angel's panties and she lifted her hips for him to tug them roughly, quickly down, discarding them across the room, pushing her thighs apart and lowering his head between them, determined to get drunk on her, determined to fog all reason to anything but her sweetness and perfection. If he'd been in his right mind, he would never have gone for it straight off with someone he hadn't been with before; he wasn't even sure he still knew what to _do_, but he had to do something to stifle the barrage of thoughts that nagged ceaselessly at his mind, had to overwhelm himself with sudden and abrupt intimacy.

But even as his tongue got to work and his cock grew harder at the taste of her, even as he relished slick, slippery flesh against his face and Angel's increasing moans thrilled him, drove him to work harder, he couldn't stop the nagging thought that every single damn thing he did he only knew because Amber had taught him. Amber, who had been generous and patient, tenderly instructing, never once even a little embarrassed or frustrated with him, taking his own nervous guidance attentively and openly. That first time, after they'd kissed a while and she'd lain back in his bloodied arms as though waiting and he'd been shaking with desire for her, shaking with terror too, she'd looked up into his face from her own bruised and swollen one so calm and lovingly stroked his cheek.

"I have no fuckin' idea what I'm doing either," she'd whispered. And he'd just stared at her, confused.

She'd laughed a little, embarrassed, looked away.

"I haven't had real sex in years," she'd said, and something a little pensive and sad stole across her features. "I'm not sure I ever have," she finished wistfully.

Then she'd reached up and tenderly kissed him and his heart had thudded painfully with how achingly vulnerable she seemed in that moment, and how much more badly it made him want her. "We can learn together," she'd promised him.

And they had.

Angel thrust up into his face and he sucked and licked her passionately, in a frenzy of lust with her scent, obscuring all else this intimate and close. She was wet, so wet. Amber said the drugs dried her system out; she'd nearly always needed lubricant. He hadn't minded; hadn't known any different. But this was decadence; another element that seemed to emphasise how luscious and succulent Angel seemed in comparison to Amber, everything about her excessive and generous, and how could he even _think_ in those terms, when Amber had been so loving and willing, when he'd loved her and she'd been beautiful to him…

Angel was even loud as she climaxed, the pulse of her spasming muscles against his face making his cock swell. It had never mattered that Amber wasn't because she had always sighed his name, the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. Angel screamed it and for a moment he felt a twinge of cockiness, an emotion he thought he'd long lost the ability to feel.

But then he was hearing the sigh of that cigarette-roughened voice echoing in his head and he turned his face, pressing it into Angel's fleshy thigh, sucking in a deep breath and struggling against the barrage of agony that suddenly constricted his chest.

Angel's fingertips traced his cheek and he opened his eyes to look up at her, shifting upright, gazing at her stretched out beneath him, supine and languid, her lidded eyes hazed with bliss and affection. It sparked tenderness in him, a swell of feeling that prompted him to lay a palm between her thighs, feeling the lingering twitch, the silky fluid as his fingertip was engulfed in soft warmth and she hitched a breath, her hips lifting a little.

He was just about to tell her how beautiful she was when she spoke:

"Jesus, she taught you well."

He yanked his hand away as though burned, his jaw tightening and his shoulders tensing, and her eyes widened as she realised her mistake.

"Sorry," she hastened as she sat up on her elbows, her heavy breasts sliding across her chest. "I – "

"Shuttup," he growled, harsher than he meant to, pushing her back down on the mattress and covering her mouth with his own.

His heart was a black knot in his chest as he kissed her fiercely, roughly, trying to erase the last few moments from his consciousness, replace them with nothing but the beat of their breath and the dance of their tongues, Angel's beautiful breasts against his plastron and the intoxicating wet heat that radiated between her thighs, urging his cock forward, seeming to promise the oblivion he so craved.

Angel strove to meet his passion in kind, her hands moving frenziedly over his scalp, his neck, his shoulders and arms, kissing him deeply back. She wasn't Amber. She would never be anything like Amber. That was a good thing. He should be grateful. He _was _grateful. Because even tormented as he was by the relentless barrage of memories that assaulted him every time he began to get even _close_ to being fully present with this drop dead gorgeous girl, it sure as fuck beat lying at home alone, aching for Amber, fighting against his heartbreak, too sickened with his loss even to jerk off most of the time.

Angel gasped against him as his teeth tugged at her lip, as he grasped hold of her hip, pinning it down. She spread her legs wider and her compliance made him burn, made him thrum with lust as the tip of his cock pressed into her wet opening, felt the first tantalising stretch of her around him. He fought against the impulse to thrust straight into her; tempting though it was, he knew better. Knew better because he'd been taught better. He didn't want to hurt her. He wouldn't hurt her. He would try not to.

"Be gentle with me, papi," Angel whispered against his mouth, desirous and apprehensive all at once, rocking her hips so she slid all around his cockhead, making the pulse in his loins reach a feverpitch of yearning. Fuck, but he wanted her. Wanted to plunge right in and lose himself in her.

He was unsurprised to find the drawer in the bedside table filled with condoms and he grasped hold of a tube of lubricant and anointed himself liberally with it as Angel waited quietly, keenly beneath him, biting her lip in an adorable way and trailing fingertips along the ripple of his musculature, her small brown hand coming down to wrap around his huge one as he pumped himself a few times, fixing his gaze intently on her so that he saw nothing else.

"I've dreamed of this," she said quietly, gazing solemnly into his eyes as he shifted over her again and he kissed her into silence, gently this time, his thighs nudging hers wider, his hands grasping her hips and holding her still.

As Raphael eased slowly into her, he was utterly unprepared for the intensity of sensation and once more he was thrust back into wretchedly painful memories, the bliss his body experienced tainted by recollections of when he had done this in love, when this intimacy had seemed reckless as wandering blindfolded by a cliffside and as euphoric as plunging over its side and straight into Heaven.

Angel whimpered and gasped beneath him and he broke the kiss to check she was all right. Though her body seemed receptive, aided by the lubrication both artificial and natural, he knew not many human males packed as big as mutant turtles. Casey had gotten offended one time Mikey had been ridiculing the 'shrimpy packages' sported by porn stars.

Angel cupped his face in her hands and looked straight at him as he searched her eyes, her expression soft and tender. He forced himself to wait, letting her get used to him, the warmth and tightness of her a tantalising promise of the ecstasy that hovered, waiting for the rock of his hips. Angel breathed in deeply and exhaled and he felt her relax, savoured the little smile that curved her lip, encouraging him. Tension coiled at the base of his tail, the grip of her around him stirring a relentless pulse that urged him to move, but still he waited. He hadn't done this with anyone else before. When he and Amber had made love, it had seemed to him like they had made the world, every pull and tug of their bodies against the other, every mingled breath and ecstatic cry, every lock of their eyes seeming to forge new horizons they sped towards. He had no idea how this was going to feel, or how it was going to affect him. Had no idea if Angel would feel like they'd shaken the earth while all he experienced was the shallow relief of pent up frustration – and if she would be able to tell.

In the depths of her eyes he saw love and the moment was so familiar that for a sickeningly disorientating instant he could swear she was Amber.

He shut his eyes and began to move.

Angel sucked in a choked breath and gripped his shoulders hard as he thrust in long, slow strokes that sent delicious waves of pleasure shuddering through him. He kept his eyes tight shut, reluctant to look at her and see the right expression in the wrong eyes, guided by feel and instinct only, gently squeezing her hips and reassured by their generous padding, so different, so, so different to Amber's bony frame.

Hot breath followed by soft, wet lips found the flesh of his neck and Angel kissed and licked him, sending gooseflesh scattering down his spine, nipping him lightly. Fuck, it was too much like her – too much. Jesus. He wanted to tell her to stop, or tell her to bite harder and he let go of her hips and balanced his weight on the mattress, propping himself up on his hands and suddenly the only place they were connected was at the groin and where Angel's fingertips dug into the muscle of his shoulders. Unconsciously he sped up, thrusting harder, deeper, the blissful sensation steadily accumulating, his eyes pressed shut so that he saw nothing but her face, its countless freckles, the mess of redhair, those blue eyes gazing into his saying words they had never said out loud to each other, not even once, swimming behind his eyelids. Angel felt different, even within, but now at that speed and with the encroaching oblivion coming so close, so damn close, he couldn't tell, not really, it could be her, it could be, and the name was in his throat before he realised it, springing to his lips as natural as breath.

But just before it emerged, Angel was crying out for his attention, her body tensing beneath him, protesting. "Not so hard, please Raph, please!"

And his eyes flew open and he stared dismayed into her distressed face, reality rushing upon him in a dizzying wave, and immediately stopped.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he babbled hoarsely. "I'm so fuckin' sorry, Angel."

She was stroking his face, trying to reassure him even though she was the one who needed care right then. "It's okay, papi, it's okay."

"Jesus, are you okay?"

"I'm okay, I just," and she let out a shaky little laugh. " - need gentler handling is all. I'm okay. Don't stop, please don't stop."

Raphael did not move, only stared intently into her eyes, examining her for pain or fear. She seemed a little shaken but her body had relaxed around him again and she was smiling up at him sweetly, lifting her head to kiss him, her lips soft and lingering.

"I'm fine," she promised him. "I don't want to stop. Please."

Angel was not Amber, would never be her. Amber, who had begged him to go harder far beyond what he believed her tiny, frail frame could endure, whose body had proven stronger and more resilient than he could have imagined while Angel, with her ample hips and large breasts, was so much more tender and fragile. Being ripped back into reality had left his head reeling, heart upending as he realised how close he had come to calling out for her, to hurting Angel, his senses buzzing, confused and conflicted to be stimulated like this, with so much the same and yet so different.

Keeping his eyes open, trained on her face, he slowly, gently began to move again and her eyelashes fluttered, expression relaxing with pleasure and he wondered why he had stopped looking at all. She was beautiful. So goddamn beautiful. And she was right there and she wanted him.

He bent his face to hers and kissed her again and she hummed into his mouth, her arms sliding around his neck and holding on tight as he fell into a steady, firm rhythm that seemed to make her happy. His weight on his forearms, he allowed his plastron to lower so that her breasts could bump against him, soft and delicious, and as their mouths met over and over in breathless, hungry kisses, he once again felt the steady build of pressure within him as his cock relished every lick of bliss her body gave him. Her thighs gripped the edge of his carapace, her ankles pressing down on the scutes, urging him closer, and he twined his fingers in her hair and nipped at her neck, rewarded with a ragged moan and the press of her fingernails into his flesh. It felt incredible, all of it, the intense sensations, the warmth of a naked feminine body, the interplay of breath and tongue, muscle and fat, the slick, firm heat of her around his rigid organ, and yet every moment of it hurt. He forced himself to look at her, to accept who she was and what they were doing together, struggling to comprehend how he could be in the throes of bliss with a beautiful woman, a miracle however you looked at it, and still feel so alone.

Raphael's thumb traced Angel's brown cheek and with every fibre of his being he wished this had all happened at another time, that everything could be different.

It didn't matter; orgasm suddenly raced upon him in a torrent of overwhelming sensation, his mouth falling to Angel's neck, taking firm hold of her flesh in his teeth as finally, deliriously, briefly, he knew nothing but the ecstasy that gripped him in a shuddering embrace, silencing all protest, blinding all confusion. He emptied himself into her and it seemed, for a moment, with it went all pain and sorrow.

Then he came slowly back to his body, back to the tiny room and the rumpled sheets scented with _Coco Mademoiselle_, to the lovely woman beneath him who, for all the salvation she might offer him, was not the one he wanted.

And he buried his face deep into Angel's hair and swallowed hard against the anguish that threatened to erupt.


	8. Chapter 8

He'd torn across the rooftops, blood boiling and muscles burning, with only one objective in mind: beat the shit out of someone.

He was still too angry to fully comprehend what had just occurred; the violence of what they'd said to each other in the aftermath of those spiteful words. The remorse in Amber's eyes had been scorched away when he lashed back at her, and then it had seemed the decrepit tenement around them had shook beneath their malice and fury as they each strove to do the other the most harm.

_Bitch_, his mind roared as the wind lashed his sweaty skin and the world veered beneath him with every gut-churning leap he made, the actions of his body pure impulse, guided by nothing but the urge to move, to outrace the pain that skittered at his heels, to stay safely immersed in fury. _Fuckin' worthless bitch_.

Each ragged breath seemed to scrape his throat raw when he finally dropped to a halt in a backstreet, panting and drenched, every muscle quivering. His mind was still a furious, babbling churn of anger, thoughts tumbling over each other in little more than senseless flashes of feeling, and he didn't want it to clear. Didn't want anything except the comforting fog of rage obscuring all else, all reason and all desire.

He couldn't stop; fury propelled him forward, silently cutting through the backstreets of the city with grim intent, every inch of him gripped in a constant, feverish tremble as he hunted for something upon which the clamouring hell within him could be unleashed. He had to do something, or it seemed it would devour him from the inside. Every moment that passed that he remained frustrated and locked in torment he could feel himself slipping away into utter mindlessness, feel his grip on sanity loosen.

The man didn't do much; flicked a girl's skirt up as he passed by and laughed when she shrieked. But for Raphael it was enough. The stricken look on her face, the fear and the shame, made his fists tighten so hard it seemed the skin over his knuckles would split and he had the bastard in the next alleyway, laying into him with a series of savage and satisfying blows the man never had a chance to defend against, the scent of blood on the air and the crunch of bone beneath his fists exhilarating, the face of every man who'd taken Amber blistering in his vision with every blow that landed.

Raphael wasn't sure exactly when the man passed into unconsciousness, but he came back to himself with a ringing in his ears and sparks behind his eyes, the man's limp body sagging in his grip, his face nothing but a pulpy mess of blood and bone.

He crumpled to the street in a broken heap when Raphael released him and all Raphael could do for countless, senseless moments was stare at the mess he'd so viciously, deliriously made.

And it all came upon him in a rush: every harsh, vile word they'd spat at each other, how mercilessly they had raged, how easily they had resorted to cruelty, to hitting each other in all the places they knew would devastate the most, only knowing them at all because they had loved each other – surely they'd loved each other, surely that had been love…

And he'd fallen to his knees next to the man's prone form and retched and retched as though he could expel all the guilt and self-loathing and heartache that way, as though the poison of his own rage infected only his body and not his soul.

Fuck – the things he'd said to her – how the fuck was he going to live with himself – how was anything ever going to be okay again –

The man was alive, a thin strain of breath whistling through broken teeth, and Raphael called nine-one-one before he took to the rooftops once more, the anguish that had chased him since he stormed from her side finally catching him up in a relentless embrace, bearing down on him like the fist of God and leaving him crushed and shuddering, weeping into the dirt and pigeon shit.

He had no idea how long he had heaved and sobbed, his face scalded by hot tears, his heart feeling as pulpy a mess as that man's face, before sheer exhaustion stilled him.

He'd sat back on his haunches and only then became aware of the stiff agony that gripped his knuckles. He was lucky they weren't all smashed to pieces. Jesus – he'd been completely out of control. _Jesus_.

She'd told him to never come back and in that moment he'd never wanted to see her again anyway.

But god, the things he'd said –

He'd betrayed her in every imaginable way. There was no coming back from it. He stared into the future with the dizzying knowledge that nothing was ever going to be the same again, that everything that unfolded from that moment forth was set into motion by that terrible fight, and nausea again overcame him as the enormity of it all seemed echoed in the heavens that stretched endlessly above him, leaving him reeling, swaying, stricken by a shuddering that felt like fever.

She'd told him to never come back. He'd told her he never would.

But that didn't mean he couldn't –

But it was never going to be the same. Not ever. They had fought a lot, but never like this. Even if they were able to come to some sort of peace, he would forever see the things he had said in the shadows of her eyes – and he knew the things she had said would forever haunt his.

The things she had said –

Everything he had ever feared, ever dreaded.

If he had betrayed her, then she had betrayed him, as completely and utterly, in kind. And as her bitter, venomous words tumbled through his recollection in a hot, churning flow, anger once again ignited, like a blaze set beneath his heart, scorching and vivid.

He seized upon it and held it close with a sort of mad joy, its familiar heat repelling the anguish, consuming him in a comforting haze. For everything she had said, she deserved the same again. Fuck her.


	9. Chapter 9

For a long while, they simply lay together in silence in the dim room, the CD having finished, the distant sounds of traffic beyond the window only emphasising the quiet. She nestled in the crook of his arm and he idly stroked her cheek, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above, pocked and mottled with water damage. Her body felt warm and soft in his arms and he was reluctant to let go, her closeness soothing the raw and ragged strum of his heart. She laid her face on his shoulder and pressed a loving kiss against his neck and he shut his eyes tightly, the sweet tickle of her lips unbearably intimate.

After a while she shifted, sitting up to look at him, her brown face gentle and intent.

"I loved that," she said quietly. "You made me very happy."

The touch of a smile crossed his mouth and he cupped the back of her head and tugged her down to kiss her softly.

That seemed to please her and she smiled affectionately at him when he released her.

"Drink?

"Yeah."

He sat up to watch her saunter to the kitchen, loving the sway of her hips and the way her large buttocks undulated, unable to tear his eyes away. There was a tug in his groin and another, more cynical, smirk twitched at his lips. After all that, he was only too ready to go there again.

He watched her a moment longer as she mixed the drinks, eyes roving her lightly quivering breasts as she moved, then dragged his eyes away to scan the racks crammed with clothes along the wall, the scattered pairs of toweringly high stilettos that littered the floor around the bed, red soles bright against the worn old carpet. Raphael didn't know the first thing about fashion, except that women always had way more than they ever needed, but he could smell the fine leather.

The floorboards creaked and he looked back to see Angel coming towards him again, smiling coyly, her face still flushed and her hair all mussed, her breasts jiggling and that unbelievably fuckin' hypnotic rhythm to her hips and damn, he wanted to fuck her again.

She wouldn't say no. That he was sure of.

Angel handed him his drink and he murmured his thanks as she sank down onto the bed beside him, tucking her legs up under her and reaching out to stroke his cheek. He wanted to pull away but permitted it, taking a sip of the strong vodka, casting his eyes around the room again, not looking at her.

"How long you been workin'?"

The brief silence that followed told him both that she knew exactly what he meant, and that he'd been correct in his deductions.

Then she exhaled, tossed her hair nervously.

"On and off, since I was sixteen," she said bluntly, quietly. "The last year more often."

Raphael nodded once, took another sip. Earlier she'd talked about how the salon she'd been working at had closed down last year and it had been hard to find another local that could take her on with decent hours. At one stage she'd worked at three different places, traipsing all over the city to make her rent. She'd been in and out of foster homes since her grandmother had died when she was fourteen, and Raphael knew enough to know those places were hell for kids – especially girls. She'd dropped out of school, run away, hid from the system until she turned eighteen. It was no surprise at all, really. It was a common enough story around those parts.

Angel took several gulps of her drink, tugged at the rumpled sheet to cover herself and he inwardly flinched, knowing he had made her feel ashamed and scrutinised, hating himself for it because she didn't deserve that, shouldn't feel that way.

"How did you know?"

He turned his head to look at her, a brow ridge quirked incredulously. "Thirty bucks for a fuckin' candle?" he pointed out lightly and she relaxed a little, smiling back at him, lowering her eyes. "Plus, y'know, the state of the art fuckin' entertainment system."

She blushed, grinning, flicking her hair back with one hand and she looked so adorable he wanted to reach out and brush her cheek with his knuckles, but restrained himself.

"Okay, okay, I know." She fidgeted for a moment, shifted the sheet so it was tucked up under her arms, covering her breasts, then thoughtfully chewed her lip. He watched her intently, staying quiet, giving her space to talk. "I just – I just want some nice things, y'know? Not like a hairdresser's salary ever gonna make more than ends meet."

"I get it," he said gently. He did. He'd seen enough of it around –_ experienced_ it enough to know - poverty was debilitating. Sure, having enough to eat and a place to sleep met basic needs, but constantly barraged on all sides by an excess of material goods, hovering tantalisingly ever out of reach, seeming to carry with them the promise of a different sort of a life while they worked themselves down to the bone, struggling just to keep the roof over their head - so many of the girls from these neighbourhoods tricked a night or two now and then, or took advantage of other opportunities.

Prompted by those thoughts he followed his earlier impulse to reach out and stroke her cheek and she lifted her eyes to his and smiled gratefully, reassured by the touch. Fuck, she was lovely.

It had been two months, or maybe three – he lost track of time easily for a while – after Amber had disappeared that he'd been sitting against the wall in the dojo at some ridiculous hour of the morning, plastron heaving, knuckles split and bloody, sweat-drenched, and Donatello had appeared in the door frame, looking at him with serious dark eyes. Raphael had stared at him wildly, panting, knowing he had been caught, knowing there was no concealing the torment he was in, that he wore it in that manic gaze and on his bloody fists as blatantly as if he had been bawling his eyes out. If there had been even a shred of pity in Donatello's eyes he would've launched himself at his brother, but the purple masked turtle simply gazed at him, calm and grave.

"Give me her name, and I'll try to find her," was all he'd said.

He hadn't found her. Instead, he'd found the truth, and it had only made things worse.

Amber had always insisted she came from a nice, loving family home, stable, supportive and generous. That the path her life had taken had been one of her own design, prompted by the all consuming passion for heroin that had gripped her at a tender age.

What they learned from her records had made him sick, confounded and stricken him, not least because it was the same story Amber had always sneered at as the worst of clichés: her father was doing time for the molestation of his own children; a boy, another girl and Amber herself. The nauseating revelation had served only to torment his frantic, aching mind further – why had she lied? Why had she chosen to carry that burden alone – utterly alone?

Then he'd thought well, wouldn't that be something he would do?

"You usin'?" he asked Angel and she jerked her head back, eyes flashing.

"Do I look like I'm fuckin' usin'?" she snapped, outrage and insult etched on her pretty face.

He held his hands up appeasingly, quietly admiring her fire. "Sorry." He dropped his hands back down to his lap and held her gaze, feeling the weight of his thoughts furrow his brow. "Just worried boutcha."

That made her smile and duck her head coyly, placated, and again his gut churned. She deserved better than this. Better than him. A whole lot fuckin' better.

But he needed her so bad.

For a moment they sat in silence, Angel fidgeting while he trained his eyes to a spot on the carpet, his thoughts swimming with visions of Amber's punctured and scarred arms, the brilliance of her smile when she was clear, how all her long and beautiful hair had felt slipping over his fingers, and the ache in his chest expanded and stretched out to tighten his throat, make his heart pound.

He wasn't aware he had pressed his eyes shut against the pain, was grinding his teeth and breathing hard until Angel's tentative hand lightly brushed his wrist. Her eyes were dark with apprehension.

"Does it bother you?"

For a moment he thought she was asking him about the drugs and he blinked at her, before he comprehended she meant working.

"Yeah," he said honestly, and her face went still. Then he felt his mouth twitch with a bitter little smile. "But I'm used to it."

Angel shifted forward, slowly, gazing deeply into his eyes, and though he wanted to look away before she could see straight through to the heart of him, he held firm, staring her down.

"She didn't deserve you," Angel said, tenderly, with unbearable compassion.

Raphael felt emotion gather like thunder below his plastron, felt every muscle in his body tense all at once, anger coiling like a snake ready to strike.

"I don't ever want to talk about her," he said quietly, perfectly still, his gaze on her deathly intent. "Ever."

Angel's eyes widened fearfully and her fingertips on his wrist trembled.

"Okay?" And damnit all, it came out as a plea, his voice betraying him with a waver and he despised himself for being so weak, for letting it show in even so little as a crack in a single word.

Empathy and sorrow flooded Angel's eyes then, but she only nodded and he ripped his gaze away.

After that she moved to the other side of the bed, wrapping her arms around herself and looking dolefully away. As his defensive fury ebbed, remorse welled to replace it. He'd screwed it up, of course, like he screwed everything up. She deserved so much better.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, you know that?" he spoke before he was even aware he would, prompted by the impulse to comfort her, and by the simple truth of it.

She shot him a wry little look, but there was a pleased glitter to her eyes and he felt his mouth tug upwards to see it. _Women._

"What the hell you wastin' your time with me for?"

Angel dropped her eyes and even in the dim light he could see her cheeks flush. "You're the best man I've ever known," she said softly.

It floored him. His first impulse was to reply that she must've known some serious assholes in that case but he stopped himself – it might hit her too close to home and he'd hurt her enough already that night. And it hit him all over again what a bastard he was being, using her. He couldn't pretend otherwise, couldn't lie to himself, not when she was laying herself out there on the line like that.

And what would make him a bigger bastard in the end? Walking out right then and there – or staying?

"You deserve better," he told her, not moving. Maybe it was wrong, but the thought of leaving her right then, to feel used and uncared for, was unbearable.

Angel tossed her hair, pouted. "It's my choice,"

The last thing he wanted was another fuckin' debate about choices.

"C'mere," he said instead, and held out an arm to her.

She came to him eagerly and he lay her down with him amidst the rumpled sheets scented headily with the residual fragrance of her perfume and the sex they'd had, cradled her in one arm and gazed upon her as his hand roamed her body, over soft dips and rises that yielded sweetly beneath his calloused palm. Angel looked up at him, affection shining in her eyes, her mascara smudged and all traces of her lipstick gone, her hair strewn around her face. She was hard to look at; too lovely and too sincere to bear, but he didn't want to look away either. He tangled his hand in her hair, the strands flowing easily through his fingers and she shut her eyes and lifted her chin with a little sigh at the caress. He'd loved Amber's hair so much, its length and thickness, the vivid colour and cool softness of it anywhere it slipped against his own rough skin. The coarser texture of Angel's colour-treated and product-thickened hair was different – but not so much so he didn't become quickly uneasy and dropped his hand back down to Angel's breast, fondling her with a pattering heart, reassuring himself with the fullness and weight of her flesh.

Not Amber. She would never be Amber. Amber was gone. He had another chance and he never would've expected that.

And Angel was the kind of girl any guy should count himself lucky to get a shot with – smart, funny, tough and sweet, sexy as hell and willing to take him as he was.

She deserved better.

Because he knew that if his phone rang and it was her, he would go to her.

Angel shifted a little in his arms, lifting a leg to sling over his thigh, and he could smell her and his tail stirred in response as she ran a hand up over the muscles of his arm.

"Do you wanna stay the night?" she whispered hopefully and he couldn't help the impulse to stroke her hair again, suddenly smothered with the urge to protect her, knowing bitterly it was himself he had to protect her from. He thought of the world beyond her apartment, cold and empty and filled only with frustrated and lonely rumination with nothing at all to buffer it.

"Right now I don't ever wanna leave," he replied honestly. Angel smiled, brilliant and buoyed and his self-loathing was like a stone in his gut. Because he'd let her go on thinking what she wanted to believe he meant. Just so he could take refuge from the bitter tug of his memory with her.

Raphael crushed her to him, kissing her deeply and hungrily, his hand dipping down between her thighs, his own legs shifting to accommodate his throbbing tail, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, her spine arching in response to his touch. Maybe this time he could lose himself fully in her. Maybe this time he would not be so haunted by yearnings for the past. Maybe this time it would be easier. Maybe it would get easier, every time. Maybe he would finally forget and be the man Angel deserved to have.

Maybe not.

But it was better than nothing.


	10. Author's Note

_Thank you for reading!_

_Now I'm gonna finish off with an epic author' note – I'm just not sure if I will write more for this 'verse, and I have so much headcanon for it that I want to share so, here we go!_

_Honestly, if your only reaction to Amber is "Raphael deserves better than a junkie hooker", then keep it to yourself. If you are able to view other human beings, whose lives and experiences you cannot comprehend, with such little compassion and empathy, then I'm not sure why you're even a tmnt fan to begin with. _

_Amber's real name is Alexandra. Most people who know that call her Alex; Raph calls her Lexy or Lex._

_Yeah, big reveal re Amber's past here. I always wondered if I would ever fit it in. I don't know how people will feel about it. She lies because she thinks no one has the right to just have that information about her and because she knows the second they do they will make a bunch of assumptions about her and her life that are condescending and presumptuous and she refuses to allow that. Amber does not consider herself a victim of the sex industry; in her perspective the industry saved her. It's mentioned in other stories she started using with a group of friends; she becomes addicted very much because of the escape it provides her from her hellish home life. When she runs away and turns to sex work to survive, she realises the financial freedom it offers her means she never ever has to go home again. She feels her story is a triumphant and not a tragic one – she live entirely free, entirely independent, outside of the system and never having to deal with her family again. She doesn't feel degraded or victimised doing sex work; being forced to live in her father's home and support her habit with a weekend job in a bookstore was what made her feel degraded. As a consequence, she does become very invested to the point of being blinded in her convictions, and becomes very invested in her lies about her past too – while Amber is definitely not a victim of the sex industry, her reluctance to become emotionally involved with others, her frequently nomadic and unattached lifestyle and her increasingly all-consuming addiction are the result of not dealing with her past._

_Raphael and Angel go on to have a relationship for over a year, but Raphael ends it when he realises he can't return Angel's love and he's basically holding her back. My headcanon is Angel had a really intense crush on Raph from pretty much the beginning and as she grew up and had a string of negative relationships with guys who treated her badly, that crush only grew as she idealised him. Mikey filled her in on the Amber situation and she develops this idea she can heal him, save him from grief. But she can't… my take on Raph is that he falls in love very rarely, but when he does he falls really hard and it takes him a very long time to recover. He just stays hung up on Amber, and as much as he really cares for Angel and wishes he could love her, he just can't and eventually he realises he's being selfish staying with her for his own comfort and sets her free – breaking her heart and damaging their friendship for years. I do think, at another time, Raphael could've truly loved her and they could've had a great relationship, but it wasn't to be here. _

_An issue that comes up between them is Angel working: she stops because she thinks that's what Raph wants her to do; then gets stressed out over money and having to dayjob a lot more; Raphael is surprised when he finds out she's not doing any sex work and says he would never have asked her to stop, which upsets Angel because she interprets that as him as not caring about her. Which isn't the case at all, just that, as much as it does bother him, he also would never expect Angel to give up financial independence and freedom… he understands the pressures of working class life. But it upsets Angel. Ultimately her relationship with Raph is not a positive experience for her and it takes her many years to forgive him. He doesn't mistreat her, but he doesn't love her the way she wants him to and certainly not the way she loves him and it hurts her horribly._

_I know, going by 2k3, people would think Angel went onto have a rosy, happy, easy life, probably go to university, etc, but that's just not reality and doesn't interest me. If you wonder why Angel still lives in a shitty place even though she gets all this money hooking, it's not at all unusual: you start off poor, you start working and all of a sudden you have all this money and you've gone without for so long you spend it as quick as you get it so you end up with a shitty apartment full of beautiful things, lol. _

_Raph goes onto have a very positive and liberating relationship with Joi, during which they travel the world and he finally gets some peace and heartsoothing done. His relationship with Joi ends amicably and by mutual agreement though they continue to have sex occasionally when their paths cross in the future. After this, he ends up back in New York with Lucindra, which is a fun and stimulating relationship for him and he develops deep feelings for her, but ultimately Lucindra ends it, causing him a little heartache in the process._

_For those rolling their eyes at neither Angel or Amber freaking out at the sight of turtle dick… I actually think Amber had some major issues with Raphael's physiology to begin with, but she's an expert at concealing such reactions thanks to experience in her job with all kinds of unappealing men. She truly loves him and does want him and gives him that blowjob right off the bat partly to force herself to deal with it and get past it. It takes her a few months to really get used to it all though. Of course, by the time we meet Amber again, 15 years in the future, she is a hooker to all kinds of alien species and is totally blasé about that stuff. But I do see her as having had a prejudiced reaction internally at first and needing to deal with her shit. She knew it would've devastated him though, and so she hides it completely._  
><em>Angel, I think, totally already had the lowdown from Mikey and so was prepared for it – take that as you will. ^_^<em>

_Another piece of my headcanon: Leo is sent away on that training mission because he's busted for having an affair with Karai by Splinter! I headcanon the adult (21-23 or so) Karai seduces 16 year old Leo, initially to control him, and out of perverse curiosity and amusement, but ends up developing feelings for him herself and they have a clandestine affair for a while before Splinter finds out and the shit just utterly hits the fan. Leo is sent away to be taught discipline and self-sacrifice, because what the fuck was he thinking, fucking the enemy! He endangered the whole family, thought only of himself, was incredibly foolish and selfish, and he's supposed to be the leader. Leo is guilt-stricken and deeply ashamed – he loves Karai but felt all along they were doing the wrong thing and now they've been caught, he just feels even worse and like he failed everyone and how COULD he have been so selfish and all this goes a long way to explaining his behaviour in the 2k7 film – he stays away because even though he's absolutely resolved to never going near Karai again, is sure he understands his duty now and will never again be so weak, he still loves her and he sees that as an unforgiveable failing. I think Karai might've tracked him down before he hid in Central America, and he spurned her, leading to her animosity in the film, but he would've hurt to do it, and wrestled with that. None of the brothers ever know about this until Leo confesses to Raph one drunken night years later. Leo goes onto have a deeply passionate relationship with Radical (who doesn't die horribly!) and accepts what Karai really is._

_Splinter's ineptitude in the film never sat well with me. Why haven't they been training? Splinter was always their teacher, so why is it all down to Leo being gone they're out of shape and the family has fallen apart? Splinter held them together just fine for a long while! AS IF he would let them slack off and then put all the responsibility on Don. To explain this, I headcanon Splinter became very, very sick after Leo left, literally at death's door, and it was an incredibly scary time for all of them (further explaining Raph's intense anger and resentment at Leo as he projects the blame onto him) (and this can tie in with that deleted scene of Don being on Splinter's case about his cholesterol levels). Splinter is still pretty frail by the time of the film, which explains why he hasn't got them all whipped back into shape. _

_Some of this stuff is not indicated in my earlier fic for this series because I hadn't yet developed these headcanons for it. If I were really motivated and had a lot more time, I'd go back and revise it all so everything was consistent – but it's unlikely it'll happen. I think it'll all hang together well enough. If you have a question about anything, feel free to get in touch._


End file.
